


Tender Spots

by silbecoo



Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: F/M, trish walker - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-19 23:24:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11908377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silbecoo/pseuds/silbecoo
Summary: At the urging of the person who cares about her most, Jessica Jones accepts that maybe brute force isn't all that's necessary when dealing with assholes.





	1. Chapter 1

She doesn’t like the way that Trish looks at her when there are bruises on her face. The scrapes along her cheekbone are still fresh, barely scabbed over since her last scuffle with the ethereally beautiful zombie woman. And there’s that look coming from Trish, just to make things a little more unbearable. It’s soft and concerned and there’s a little pain beneath the surface. 

“Don’t give me that look.” 

Trish feigns innocence, eyebrows shooting up. “What look? There’s no look.” 

Trish’s fancy apartment in the sky offers plenty of distractions for Jessica. There’s a fully stocked bar with an array of amber liquids floating in crystal decanters, big wide windows to gaze out over the city while sipping the burning liquid. Jessica employs these distractions as best she can, walking away from her best friend to gaze across the skyline. It’s cold by the windows, the alcohol burning at the back of her throat is a lie to keep her warm. Trish lets her stew for a minute, and it’s Jessica who caves and glances back across the lush apartment. “There’s a look. There’s always a look.” 

Trish nods, conceding. “You may be strong, Jessica, but you’re not indestructible.” 

The tumblr clinks against the granite counter top. “Which is why I don’t like getting involved in this shit.” 

“Right… and yet you always do.” 

Trish is beside her now, her slender hand covering the back of Jessica’s. It’s protective and loving, and for a moment, the briefest moment, Jessica lets herself wonder what it would be like to accept it fully, to dismantle the cage around her heart. She shakes off the feeling, the cage is to protect them, not her. 

Trish continues, “I don’t want you to stop, Jess. I think you can do a lot of good.” 

Jessica scoffs, picking up the drink and tossing back what’s left. 

“But you’ve got to learn a few more moves. Brute force doesn't always work.” 

The soft feeling of Trish’s hand on Jessica’s is gone. Instead she’s using it to slide a business card across the counter. It’s for the martial arts studio down the street, the overly fancy place that serves cucumber water in between krav maga. The very idea of popping in at that particular studio feels like fingernails on a chalkboard to Jessica, but she takes the card from Trish nonetheless. “Thanks, I’ll look into it.” 

Trish shakes her head, smiling softly. “Bullshit.” The word is said with a smile, and it’s not an indictment. “Thank you for humoring me.” 

\- 

The card lies on her desk for one day, a silent reminder of a vulnerability she’d long since tried to push away. She’s not indestructible, she’s mortal, she’s easily wounded, she’s half a second from death every time she gets into a fight with someone. The memory of hellboy saving her still grates on her nerves. He’s fast, sure, but he’s flesh and bone just like her, and he doesn’t even have the benefit of being able to pick up cars and toss them at people. 

The more she thinks about it, the more annoyed she becomes. He doesn’t _have_ to be doing this. No one expects it from him like they do from her, like they do from Luke. Matthew Murdock could just go back to living the boring life of a litigator and no one would try and guilt him into fighting for others. Except… he seems to have the guilt thing down pat, no need for other people. 

Tonight she’s fallen asleep in her desk chair, yet again. Lately her bed feels like an unwelcome reminder of things she can’t have, and sleep is something she fights anyway. It’s better for her to sit at her desk working, drinking… when she passes out like that there are no dreams. But now it’s three a.m. and there’s a hellacious crick in her neck, and a restlessness in her body that she can’t shake. She reaches for the whiskey bottle to start over again, but it’s empty. 

“Fuck.” 

When she leaves her apartment she’s on a mission, eyes straight ahead, hands tucked into her pockets. The look on her face keeps the assholes at bay. She’s looking for a twenty-four hour liquor store, so she doesn’t know how she ends up three blocks into Hell’s Kitchen, gazing up at a giant buzzing neon sign. Bright pink and purple, it’s the most obnoxious thing she’s ever seen. Murdock’s lucky he can’t see it. 

Grunting, she drags the nearest dumpster under the building’s fire escape, stretching to reach the bottom rung. It’s cold and wet against her fingers. She grips hard and hauls herself up to the first landing. She catches her reflection in the window. Her bruises have already started to fade, the scrapes looking less of an angry red and more like rust that’s about to flake away. She’s never quite understood her powers, didn’t really want to in the beginning. There’s something of a healing factor that comes along with her super strength. She starts climbing again, absentmindedly wondering if the healing factor is why she can’t seem to keep a good buzz going. 

She reaches Matt’s loft in seconds, sitting outside the ledge to catch her breath. Suddenly she’s not sure what she’s doing. Matt’s clearly got his own shit to be sorting out, and she’s too hungover to learn anything. Sighing, she leans back against the window, thumping her head against the glass. Her eyes drift shut. Softly she starts humming a song, feeling a different kind of buzzing in her limbs. _Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name._ A soft little laugh interrupts her just as she gets to the chorus. 

Her eyes pop open, gaze shooting up toward the sound. There he is. Arms crossed in annoyance up on the roof. Before she can say anything he jumps down beside her, perching on the ledge like some kind of gymnast, even though he's only wearing a pair of soft pajama bottoms and a cotton tee. Hair missed from sleep, no shades. He has a very boyish look about him. It's unexpected. 

“Nice song choice, Jones.” 

She raises one eyebrow. “It seemed… fitting.” 

Something falters in the smirk that’s on his face, his head cocking toward her. “Do you have sympathy for the devil?” 

She doesn’t necessarily like the way he’s so intently listening to her. His breathing is shallow, brow knitted as he focuses in on on her. It’s probing, invasive even. There are echoes of Killgrave in the way it makes her feel.She shivers, her whole body physically reacting to the memory. 

Matt’s head snaps toward her, an apology already on his lips, but she shakes it off. “It’s fine.” She shifts uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “And… surprisingly I do have a little sympathy for the devil even when he’s insufferably self-righteous.” 

He settles on the ledge beside her, waiting a moment before asking, “Jessica… why are you here?” 

“Trish thinks I’m gonna get my ass kicked by some ninja, and she wants me to take krav maga classes at this hip little martial arts studio up town.” 

“And?” 

“And that sounds about as appealing as pulling my fingernails out one by one with a pair of pliers. So… I thought you could show me a thing or two.” 

“From the tone of your voice, I'd say training with me is only a slightly more appealing form of torture.” 

He smirks, and she realizes with some surprise that she never really sees him do that with other people. He's always so fucking serious all the time. She never would have guessed that her own shitty sense of humor would align with his. “Yeah, well at least I’d get to punch you in the face a couple times.” 

She nearly jumps when he reaches for her hand, an instinct that would have had her smeared across the pavement. His fingers run across her knuckles, and her heart thunders in her chest for half a second, and it pisses her off that he can hear it. 

Sheepishly he pulls away. “You don't exactly have a lot of bone built up in your knuckles, either you don't punch people that often, or your healing factor keeps your bones from rebuilding that way.” 

“I don't…” She wants to deny what he's implying. People not knowing that she heals fairly quickly is the one advantage she has left. “How do you know about the healing thing?” 

He reaches up to touch her face, but she flinches again and he drops his hand. “Sorry, habit… I was just guessing. Your bruises have gone down, haven't they?” 

She grunts an affirmation, blowing out a gust of air. She's so fucking tired. “Tomorrow then?” 

Nodding, he rises from the ledge. “Bright and early.” 

She snorts. “Figures you're an early bird.” She doesn't move to leave, instead leaning back against the window to stare at the blinking neon across the street. In spite of its tacky persistence, there's something kind of pretty about the way the wet concrete reflects the light back. She's lost in thought when Matt says her name again. 

“Jessica...” He trails off, suddenly unsure of himself. 

“Yeah?” She watches as he runs his fingers through his hair, like he's nervous about something. Again, it's utterly absurd, but he looks like a lost child. The feeling reverberates through her. 

“Um… it's pretty late. You could, uh, crash on my couch if you want.” 

She can't let him see how appealing the offer is. Her apartment is a wreck, bad memories in every crevice, and nothing to wash them down with when she gets there. She nods, hoping he can some how sense it so she won't have to vocalize her relief. 

It works, and he's already swooping across the ledge to unlatch one of the windows. Tomorrow is certainly going to be interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be more shippy than it ended up being. It feels like it could use another chapter or two just to get things going. Sorry if it seemed to slow. Thanks for reading. Please let me know what you think, comments and feedback are greatly appreciated. (they help sooo much with my motivation to write). Also if you want you can come say hi on tumblr [here](http://thekastlediaries.tumblr.com/ask)


	2. Chapter 2

Matt wakes to the sound of his shower running. The air is warm and there’s an almost imperceptible increase in the humidity of his apartment. She’s humming in the tiny shower stall, lathering up her hair with his shampoo, and the smell of his favorite soap on her skin is sharp against his nose. He knows if he concentrates he’ll be able to hear the sound of Jessica’s hands slowly dragging across her wet skin as she washes away faint scent of alcohol and sadness that clings to her. 

Instead he groans, dragging himself out of bed, trying like hell to focus on anything other than the naked woman in his bathroom. Freshly ground coffee is enough to invade his sinuses and push away errant scentscapes. He needs it too, the zip of caffeine in his veins. He spent most of the night listening to her breathing and the buttons of her jeans scraping against his leather couch as she shifted uncomfortably. She isn’t an easy sleeper, although that’s not exactly something he finds surprising. 

The coffee is smooth going down. The warmth pools in his stomach, and for a brief moment he can forget the shit storm that he’s somehow stumbled into yet again. He’s resting against the counter, enjoying his unusually peaceful morning, when she steps out into the open space. For such a small woman, her presence is huge, her heart beating hard in her chest, air huffing out of her nose in irritation as she moves toward him. “I need some hair of the dog.” 

“Uh… actually, I don’t keep much of that in stock.” He doesn’t tell her it’s because he doesn’t trust himself. Sometimes the sadness is too much, the sounds of the city too intense, and all he wants to do is crawl into a bottle, make everything just a little muted, just a little bearable. It's a testament to his self control that he rarely drinks. She doesn’t respond, and he wonders if she can read the distrust he has for himself on his face. 

After a beat, she resumes her usual jaded facade, snorting at him. “Figures. Where are your coffee cups, devil boy?” 

He jerks his head toward one of the cabinets. “Over there.” 

The fabric of her shirt, or rather _his_ shirt, rustles as she moves toward the counter. He noticed her opening and closing drawers in his bedroom after she left the bathroom, but he’d just assumed she was snooping. It never occurred to him that she was looking for something to wear. Now she stands before him in one of his cotton vee-necks and a pair of his rattiest sweats. It’s strangely intimate, and he idly wonders if they’ll smell like her long after she’s gone. He pushes away the though. It's unlikely he'll ever even get the garments back. 

She drinks coffee like she does everything else, with very little patience and even less grace. She gulps it down, the last bit of it dribbling down her chin, tongue darting out to catch the escaping drops. He’s intently listening to her, his own coffee cup long forgotten on the counter. She stops abruptly, nearly barking at him, “What are you looking at, Murdock?” 

Involuntarily, he cracks a smile and opens his mouth to correct her, but she’s already waving him off. “You know what I mean. I don’t like that intense look you get when you’re focusing on me, and 'What are you listening to?' doesn't have quite the same satisfactory accusatory tone.” 

He frowns. “Would you like it better if I pretended you didn’t exist?” 

“Actually, yes.” 

For once, it seems, she’s not being snarky. There’s a slight wobble in her voice. Matt bites back the sarcastic reply lingering on the tip of his tongue. “Okay then.” He turns on his heel, heading back toward his bedroom. “Ten minutes, and we’ll head over to Foggwell’s.” 

“What?” 

“My gym.” He can hear her annoyance, again. The deep breath she takes right before launching into a mini-rant. He cuts her off before she can begin. “I promise it’s nothing like Trish’s krav-maga spa. I’ve been going there for years. They don’t ask questions.” 

-

Foggwell’s is a filthy hole-in-the-wall boxing gym. It smells like sweat and dust and the ghosts of moldy jock straps. Matt loves it. He loves the sound of knuckles hitting the unyielding heavy bag, the machine-gun-rapid pow-pow-pow of someone going to town on the speed bag, men grunting as the air is knocked out of their lungs. 

This early in the morning, though, there is none of that. Just a quietly echoing space that he happens to have the key to. Jessica follows close behind him, touching just about every single thing they pass by, her skepticism clear in her smart-ass comments. “You gonna teach me how to box Murdock? I already know how to punch douchebags.” 

“Boxing isn’t just about hitting your opponent. It’s more important that a boxer know how to not get hit than it is for them to know how to throw a punch.” 

He moves to the boxing ring in the middle of the gym, tossing his bag down on the floor. He’s already wrapping his knuckles and stowing away his glasses. Jessica freezes, disbelief making her pause. “You’re gonna box with me?” 

He grins up at her, and moves to climb into the ring. “What’s the matter, Jones? Afraid I’ll embarrass you?” 

She snorts, her words full of pretended derision. "Of course not. I’m just really not charming enough to talk my way out of a manslaughter charge after I accidentally knock your block off.” 

There’s something in the tone of her voice that makes Matt think she’s smiling, and it’s only a few seconds before she’s kicking her shoes off and sliding under the ropes of the boxing ring. Her weight against the canvas sends vibrations that travel up his body each time she takes a step, a disadvantage she’s not even aware of. He thinks he might actually enjoy this. 

Without preamble, she hurtles toward him, the heels of her feet slamming down, fist swinging through the air. He darts out of the way, catching her under the arm and lifting her up ever so slightly. Her own momentum and power do the work for him, and she sails out of the ring, landing with an audible oomph on the gym’s floor. The air is knocked out of her lungs, and she wheezes for a moment, but there are no broken bones, no real injuries. 

When she finally catches her breath, she curses. “Mother.. fucker…” 

He slides out of the ring, moving to her side, intent on apologizing. The second he’s close enough, her hand is at his throat, and in a flash he’s knows he's made a potentially fatal error. She picks him up and slams him against the floor, planting a knee on his chest. She’s still panting trying to regain her breath. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Matt adds this to the list of endless things he needs to confess to Father Lantom, this strange desire coursing through his body unexpectedly. He’s completely at her mercy. Her slender fingers could twitch and crush his wind-pipe, or she could throw her strength into the knee pressing against his sternum and shatter the bones in his chest, stop his heart completely. Fuck if he isn’t a little turned on. 

He feels like he has no control over himself, one corner of his mouth twitching up in amusement. He knows this isn’t good for his health, and Jessica’s grip on his throat tightens just enough to remind him of this. He ekes out her name. “Jessica…” 

She’s smiling now. He’s close enough to make out the shape of her lips, sound waves bouncing back and forth between the two of them just enough to form a shivering image in his mind’s eye. He’s not the only one who’s chest is heaving. 

She shakes her head and releases him, not offering to help him up. “Okay, you made your point. It’s not all about strength. Show me what you got.” 

-

It’s a long day for the both of them, and Jessica is more than a little irritated and sore by the time it’s done. Matt offers to walk her home, but she declines. “I’ve had enough of you for one day.” 

He nods in acquiescence, parting ways with her shortly after leaving the gym. He does follow the sound of her for several blocks, her motorcycle boots falling heavily on the pavement, the smell of his shampoo in her hair, just above the sharp notes of sweat still on her skin. Her heart is calm though, beating steadily under the cotton tee until he loses her in the crowd. 

It’s only after he’s been home for about an hour that he realizes he hasn’t thought of Elektra all day. The realization crashes into him in waves of guilt and anger. He hasn’t thought about the doomed city or the way his heart constantly feels like someone is carving into it with a knife. It’s so bizarre to him that a blind man teaching a superhuman woman how to box in a closed gym is the closest to normal his life has come to all week. He didn't know he was capable of forgetting, even for a moment. 

The feeling of normalcy is shattered completely when he finally slips into bed. The pillow has the shape of someone else’s head, the smell of salty tears on the wrinkled fabric. His sheets smell like jasmine and something dusty and unfamiliar. He aches, plunging back into the guilt and grief he’s used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feedback on this fic has been so encouraging. I'm surprised and delighted there are so many people who enjoy this ship and this story. Please feel free to let me know what you think of this continuation. Comments mean the world to me and honestly make it so much more of a joy to write. Thank you all!


	3. Chapter 3

Shit goes south when Stick dispassionately tells them that Danny is the key. Jessica doesn’t want any part of it. Danny looks like a cornered animal, rage and desperation painted across his face. He’s struggling to summon whatever it is that gives him his powers. It feels wrong. He’s one of them, someone who’s trying to be a good guy. She knows if she stepped in the conversation would be over immediately. Danny’s glowing fist and his struggle to manifest it wouldn’t stand a chance against being thrown into the wall. It isn’t fair, so she backs off. 

Ten seconds later and she wishes she had ended it before it started. It’s funny. Richie Rich is not the person she thought she would be using her newly found punching skills on. The knuckles on her right hand connect with his skull straight on, the line of her wrist perfectly straight so that her had doesn’t snap back painfully with the force. She controls the strength, not wanting the murder the moron. Although, it’s difficult. Every cell in her body is full of kinetic energy and there’s nothing her muscles want more than to unleash it all. Rage had coursed through her when she’d seen him aim the glowing fist bullshit at Luke. 

On the surface she looks calm and collected. Her posture is relaxed, shoulders slouched, stance sloppy, but her heart is beating in her chest so hard she thinks maybe her shirt is vibrating from the force of it. Surreptitiously, she glances down at the thin cotton. It doesn’t matter how many times she sends people sailing through the air with her punches, the feeling is surreal. Her adrenaline still spikes. It's not human and her brain struggles to reconcile reality with what should be. Danny is splayed in front of her on the floor, unconscious. His face would almost look peaceful if the ghost of righteous indignation wasn’t pulling down at the corners of his mouth. 

She looks back over her shoulder at Luke. “You okay?” 

He nods in response, picking himself up off the floor and brushing away the dust from his hoodie. She can tell he’s already forgiven Danny, and that he probably even feels sorry for the unconscious idiot, or maybe it’s just because he knows what it’s like to be put down by the infamous Jessica Jones. That’s how Luke is, forgiving of people who don’t necessarily deserve it. The thought makes her throat constrict, an unexpected longing for something she can no longer have hits her like a ton of bricks. 

Again, the feeling doesn’t show on her face, not a muscle twitches. Instead it’s her lungs that feel too small, like her heart is too big pushing against them. Memories swirl inside of her, and not for the first time since this bullshit started, she wishes she could just go home and curl up with a bottle of booze and drink until there’s nothing left inside of her. The idea of letting the city fall down around her doesn’t seem so bad. 

She starts to back away from the scene. The others have already taken over, lifting Danny up and tying him to a chair. She can feel it, the ache in the back of her throat, the need for the burning to slip down into her stomach, the curl of it slowly making its way through her limbs. Just a little bit… to make this less sharp, less real… 

The warehouse smells like dust, mildewed leather, and freshly spilled blood. She can see particulate in the air where the sun streams through the skylights, and still somehow it is dark. The large space suddenly feels small, like the walls are moving toward her and the lights are getting dimmer. Her breaths are shorter than normal. She needs to get the fuck out of here. 

The feeling of someone’s hand on her elbow stops her. Her head snaps up to connect with the unseeing eyes of Matt’s devil mask. She hates that thing. It’s stupid looking with it’s ostentatious devil horns, and the facsimile eyes molded from polymer. She’d like to have a word with whoever designed it. Mostly she hates it because it makes her realize she’d much rather be able to see Matt’s soft brown eyes, even behind the lenses of his glasses. “What’d I tell you about grabbing me, Beelzebub?” 

He’s frowning… maybe… It’s hard to tell. So much of his expression is in the upper half of his face, the way he knits his brow when he’s impatient or frustrated with her, the way his eyebrows shoot up when he’s surprised or impressed, the way the apples of his cheeks make his eyes crinkle when he smiles. 

His mouth is a straight line, pressed together like he’s debating whether or not to speak. The line begins to quirk up on one side. “Hmm… I like to think that was an idle threat, since you’ve decked me more than once since then and I’m still as blind as ever.” 

He lets go anyway. The two of them have situated themselves into a corner away from the rest. It’s strangely private, and Matt leans close to whisper at her. “Seriously though… are you alright?” 

He’s asking her that? The man who’s surrogate father just unflinchingly _beheaded_ someone? The man who’s in love with a _zombie_ is asking her if she’s alright? Her nostrils flare, snorting out an annoyed breath. “I told you to stop doing that x-ray hearing shit on me.” 

He has the decency to look sheepish. “I’m sorry, it’s second nature.” He reaches for her again, this time pausing to give her time to move out of reach if she wants. His hand curls around her wrist and brings her fingers up to his neck. Gently he presses her fingertips against his pulse. “I’m keyed-up too, okay. I just... “ He sighs. “You seem like you’re about to make a run for it again, and I kind of need that to not happen.” 

She frowns. His pulse is rapid and his skin feels a touch warmer than it should, slick with sweat. She pulls her hand away roughly, glancing back at the rest of the group. “What’s the plan now? None of us have slept in days, and we don’t even know what the hell is going on at Midland Circle or what we’re supposed to do about it. If your buddy Stick is right about Danny being some sort of doomsday key…” 

She trails off, hoping Matt will understand what she leaves unspoken. If Danny is the key, wouldn’t it be easiest just to get rid of him? The thought makes her feel more heartless than usual, but hell, she’s so fucking tired of everything, and this week has felt like a million years in the desert without water. She’s thirsty, god damn it. 

“We need to find out what the architect was planning, and how he was going to do it.” 

She pushes herself away from the wall, stomping past Matt. Any excuse to get out of this dank warehouse is a good one. “Well then, let’s get a move on.” 

-

For any other person, this would be a scene straight out of their most romantic fantasies. Walking along the streets of New York in the fall, chilly breeze whipping up against their skin as a handsome devil (ha) clinging to their arm, smiling mischievously at their quick wittedness. 

It makes Jessica feel strange. She wonders if Matt knows how attractive he is. Surely… he’s stupidly charming whenever they have to talk to strangers, that smile, that body. He has to know the way women melt when he turns their attention toward them. Of course, she’s noticed. It’s shocking, actually, that no one else has figured out Matt is Daredevil. How many overworked defense attorneys have arms like that? 

“Is it close?” 

“I think so.” 

“You think?” 

She knows exactly where Mrs. Raymond lives, recalls the stunted maple tree out on the sidewalk in front of the brownstone. The last time she’d walked up the steps there had been a half gallon of whiskey coursing through her veins, and the image of a man’s brains exploding on her wall running in and out of her head. 

She pushes the memory away. “Yeah, I mean… don’t all these brownstones look the same?” 

He chuckles. She can feel the sound against her. Is that how it is for him? Is every sound like a touch. She shivers at the thought. She mumbles an apology, and presses forward. The maple tree is almost the same, missing a few more leaves than the last time. She practically drags Matt up the stoop. 

Jessica curses softly under her breath. The brownstone is empty. One glance through the ground level windows tells her everything she needs to know. They left in a hurry, newspapers from packing litter the floor. The glass of a broken vase is scattered across the hardwood. _Leave it, we don’t have time._ She can almost hear how frantic they must have been. 

Matt is close behind her, one hand still curled around her bicep. “What is it?” 

“They’re gone.” 

He nods. Of course he nods. He was probably just about to tell her no one was home. “From the tone of your voice, I assume they probably won’t be coming back anytime soon.” 

“They were afraid.” She kicks herself. She shouldn’t have come back around the first time. The daughter thought her father was some kind of selfish prick, but the wife had known something shady was going on. Jessica fights the urge to put her fist through the door in a fit of anger. Instead she spins on her heel, leaving Matt in the dust. “Come on. I’d be a pretty shitty private detective if I couldn’t track people down.” 

The thought of bringing him to her apartment isn’t a pleasant one. She’s never been ashamed of the way she lives, but for some reason the thought of letting him walk pass the threshold makes her feel naked, like she’s exposing the pale blue veins on her body to someone with a sharp knife. Matt doesn’t seem like the type of person to start cutting her to pieces, but neither had Luke. Sometimes people aren’t in control of what they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for continuing to read this. I have a pretty clear outline in my head and I hope to have it all written before the week is over (and i have to go back to work boo). Comments and such mean the world to me and they keep me motivated. Please let me know what you think! (p.s. this chapter felt like i was a little too focused on what happened in the show, but also I took liberties with the timeline and things that happened so it may seem a little rushed etc... It turns out I like writing the chapters that don't reference the show at all)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _so, i've sort of abandonned canon defenders universe (I wasn't particularly invested in it since the only thing i liked about it was Matt and Jessica's relationship, and trying to pin down details from the show was really bringing my writing of this story to a grinding halt) but I've still retained the arc kind of. Anywho. Don't be shy. Let me know what you think :D_

Jessica’s apartment building is old. A tenement from the turn of the century, Matt can smell the mortar between the bricks, microscopic dust particles making their way into his nostrils. It’s soon overpowered by the acrid stench of someone holding a lighter under a spoon, the stinging smoke rising from the rock resting gently in the metal curve. Jessica passes that door without comment, and not for the first time in Matt’s life does he wonder what it would be like if everyone could sense the things he does, if nothing was private. 

Jessica leads him along, one of his hands tucked under her arm for the sake of appearances. The fluorescent lights in the hallway buzz inconsistently, probably on their last leg, their flickering an ominous addition no doubt appreciated by the woman in front of him. It’s possible Jessica picked this unsavory location for her office simply because she only wants the most desperate clients. He’s never met someone so hard to read. Nervous, excited, calm… She’s almost always jumpy, like she’s waiting for something… someone. He can’t get a baseline to start from. She seems to think he’s all-knowing, and it bothers her, so he makes an effort to not try and figure her out. It’s maddeningly difficult trying not to catalogue everything about her. 

Her hand is on the doorknob when he tenses, his grip tightening on her arm. 

She freezes, whispering curtly, “What is it?” 

“There’s someone in your apartment.” 

The person on the other side of the wall is moving around in a rather unconcerned manner. There’s a thump and a soft curse, followed by… singing? Matt can hear the tinny noise of music coming from earbuds, the soft shuffle of bare feet moving back and forth across the hardwood floor. He frowns. “Whoever it is seems really at ease…” Matt frowns, his brow wrinkling in concentration. He hears the sound of water cascading from a faucet, the sloshing of it against the sides of the sink. “I think he’s washing your dishes?” 

Jessica sighs, shifting out of Matt’s grip easily. He forgets sometimes, about her strength, and then she nonchalantly reminds him. She shoves the door open, ignoring the way the door creaks against it’s jamb as she strides across the threshold. “Malcolm!” 

The music stops, and Jessica’s visitor eagerly moves from the kitchen into her office. The place is small enough for Matt to make out the lines of his mouth. A relieved smile spreads across the young man’s face. “There you are. I was worried you’d gotten tangled up in something…” Malcolm trails off at the sight of Jessica, his pleasant expression falling. “Are you alright?” 

The concern is genuine and surprising to Matt, who stands awkwardly to the side as Malcolm reaches forward to touch Jessica’s face. Matt wonders if there are still visible bruises on her skin, or if she just has dark circles under her eyes from exhaustion. Touching her like that is not a liberty he’s been afforded just yet, and so he quite literally remains in the dark. He’s struck by an unusual desire to know what she looks like, to know what color her hair is, and the tint of her lips. He was young when he lost his sight, but not young enough to forget that soft skin has a certain glow, that silky hair glints in the afternoon light, that eyes can sparkle like gemstones. Other than the vague outline of her face, he knows nothing about her looks, and for the first time in years this fact of life really bothers him. 

Her breathing, always somewhat erratic, slows for half a second during the Malcolm’s contact. It’s only with a sharp intake of breath that she pulls away and resumes her prickliness. “I’m fine. You need to return my key.” 

Matt assesses his surroundings, the faint coppery smell of blood hangs in the air but it is masked by various cleaning fluids, the same antiseptic smells that cling to Jessica’s unannounced house guest. Malcolm has been industriously cleaning, wiping away the sad end of Raymond’s life off Jessica’s walls. There aren’t that many people who would take on such an unsavory task, even for a friend. 

Matt tucks away this surprising interaction into the little box of things he knows about Jessica, and moves past the taciturn woman to introduce himself to her friend. “Matt Murdock, nice to meet you.” 

Malcolm moves to take his hand, one toe bumping into a full trash bag of empty liquor bottles. The alcohol vapors seep through the black plastic, an echo of the oak barrel infused whiskey that so often rides along Jessica’s breath. The way she shrinks away from the clinking makes the sound seem almost accusatory. Matt pretends not to notice, focusing instead on the man in front of him. 

“Malcolm Ducasse, unpaid assistant, unsung hero.” 

Jessica snorts at this and moves to her desk to power up her computer. She’s done with pleasantries. “You’ve raided my fridge plenty of times.” 

This elicits a quiet chuckle from Malcolm, and he moves to collect his things. “Love you too, Jessica. Try not to get mixed up in any crazy shit this evening.” 

“Too late.” 

“I figured.” 

Malcolm briefly squeezes Jessica’s shoulder before letting himself out of her apartment. Matt doesn’t comment on the fact that she didn’t get her key back. 

* * *

Frustration coils in Matt’s muscles like tiny springs all over his body. He’s not in his element, and he feels more than a little helpless. There is no braille printer, and Jessica doesn’t have a text to speech program on her computer. He’s stuck sitting and listening to her click and scroll and sigh in irritation. 

“They’ve vanished from social media.” Jessica says. “Not surprising.” 

“Did you check DMV records?” 

“Clearly this is your first rodeo, Perry Mason. Anti-stalking laws have made accessing stuff like that particularly difficult and I’m not exactly skilled in the art of hacking.” 

The sun is setting outside. He can’t see it, but about half an hour ago she reached across her desk to turn on the lamp, shucking off her jacket. Time seems to be slipping through their fingers and it’s putting him on edge. “What about real estate records?” 

Ten minutes later he’s still listening to her clack away at her keyboard, weird nonverbal noises emanating from the back of her throat until finally she blows out a long gust of air through her nose. “It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack, Murdock.” 

He runs his hands through his hair in frustration. This was not what he had in mind when they’d set off to find answers. His tie feels like it’s about to strangle him. Loosening the silk noose turns into unthreading it completely and tossing it to the floor, his jacket following suit as he begins to pace in front of her desk. “There has to be something else, something we’re missing. What the _hell_ are they doing at Midland Circle?” 

He feels himself unravelling. The scent of Elektra in his apartment, his things not quite where he’d left them. The ache in his chest that won’t go away. If he could just piece together this damned puzzle, the weight pushing the air out of his lungs might let up. The only time he doesn’t feel like he’s about to fly apart is when Jessica is giving him shit. 

“Hold on…” Jessica goes silent, fingers tapping gently at the keyboard. In spite of trying not to do it so often, Matt’s focus is drawn to her heartbeat. It’s steady and strong, thumping against her sternum, the sound is somewhat settling. Is this her baseline, or is this just what concentration sounds like? 

“Matt…” Her heartbeat quickens, breath catching on the single syllable. 

The sound of his name on her lips, not some epithet or nickname, makes him stop pacing. “What?” 

“Lexi just… emailed me.” 

“Raymond’s daughter?” 

“Yeah, she wants to meet me at the park at dawn… talk about dramatic.” 

Matt thumbs the open face of his watch, his gut churning as he reads the time. “I would say we have a good three hours before then.” 

Jessica leans back in her chair, it’s legs scraping on the hardwood floor. She kicks her boots off one by one. “I’d suggest we get some shut-eye, since we’re probably about to walk straight into a shit storm with no end in sight.” 

Before Matt can respond, she’s exiting her workspace, sock-clad feet shuffling into her bedroom. He follows her, one hand resting on the door facing. “And where exactly am I supposed to get some shut-eye. Your office doesn’t exactly have a sofa.” 

She shrugs, clearly forgetting that he can’t see her. It doesn’t matter. The movement rustles the sheets she has drawn up to her chin. “The bed seems like a pretty sensible option, Matlock.” 

One corner of his mouth twitches up, amusement breaking through the layers of anxiety that have been building around him all day. She’s ran out of ways to make fun of Daredevil, and she’s officially moved on to tv lawyers. “Whatever you say, Nancy Drew.” 

The sheets are soft, and they smell freshly laundered. Malcolm’s doing, he imagines. It’s a lot easier to slip into unconsciousness than he ever would have guessed. It helps that Jessica snores like a lumberjack, blocking out almost all other ambient noise.


End file.
